


Fascination

by femme4jack, fractalserpentine, HopeofDawn, Sakiku



Series: Domesticus [11]
Category: Transformers, Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Mythology/Religion, Canon-Typical Violence, Cute, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Hatchlings, M/M, Multi, Other, Plug and Play Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sparklings, Tentacles, Warning: contains Ratbat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:43:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack/pseuds/femme4jack, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalserpentine/pseuds/fractalserpentine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakiku/pseuds/Sakiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Homo sapiens Domesticus: Fascination<br/>Although possessed of very limited processing ability and even shorter lifespans, humans can be unexpectedly beguiling.  </p><p>---</p><p>A repository for Domesticus vignettes -- little snips and bits that don't fit anywhere else.  Timeline is not contiguous, and pieces may fall within any of the other Domesticus stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The rape/noncon archive warning is for the overall themes of this story-verse, which is neck deep in consent issues. We'll continue to use this archive warning on every installment due to the nature of the story-verse. Please heed the warnings if this isn't your thing.
> 
> Ch1: Fluff, imprisonment, petting.  
> Ch2: Plug n' play+  
> Ch3: Fluff, hatchlings, canon-typical violence  
> Ch4: Shockwave interviews lab assistants, etc. Fluff, human body functions

Absorbed in his work, Perceptor glanced up only briefly as the humans darted in and out. The ship was nearly empty now, but organizing everything and stowing it safely aboard Oceanus would take several cycles more. For now, Perceptor’s and Shockwave’s makeshift laboratory -- and the humans’ habitation corner -- was largely unchanged. 

A pair of soft-fingered hands poked up over the edge of Perceptor’s worktable, followed by a crest of helm fur and two bright, wet little optics. “What are you doing?” the Miles human said, peering intently at the tangle of half-assembled mechanisms and other parts. 

“I am installing tuneable terahertz optical diffraction lenses into ultraviolet gyrotron tubules,” said Perceptor distractedly. Shockwave’s camera drones had been shipped as ‘some assembly required’, which was little trouble, of course. But once he’d started, Perceptor discovered no less than thirty-four non-optimum configuration relays. With a little work, the drones could be made to perform almost six percent more efficiently. And once he’d finished those modifications, Perceptor had retooled the limb configuration, and then there was more room for an alternate, broader configuration of optical sensors....

The end result didn’t look much like the picture on the box, and a number of spare parts had been left over. But Perceptor was certain it would work just fine.

“They look like diamonds,” Miles said, climbing another rung to peer at the little crystals. 

“If you mean low-expansion tetrahedral carbon, then yes, they are,” Perceptor said. One of the miniature lenses had several flaws, rendering it somewhat less useful for his purposes. He selected it with unfolded manipulation tweezers and placed it before Miles. He’d discovered that, without parts of their own to play with, the humans frequently attempted to ‘assist’ Perceptor. Occasionally, this trait was useful, but all too often it simply meant fingerprints and micro-flecks of shed derma all over his experiment. 

“Wow,” Miles breathed, picking up the glittery little crystal, hardly the size of the last joint of his thumb. He turned it back and forth in the light, watching the flash and ripple of light across the surface, apparently fascinated. “Do you need this one?” Miles asked after a klick, offering the tiny object to Perceptor. 

“I do not,” said Perceptor, unexpectedly warmed. The humans frequently appreciated objects with unique optical properties, he recalled. “Indeed, several of these others are below the specifications required by the enhanced thermal assembly I constructed; could you perchance uncover a use for them?”

“Uhm, maybe,” said Miles, holding both hands out to accept the other four substandard crystals. “Woah, thank you! The guys are gonna be so stoked!” 

Perceptor watched the Miles-human trot out of the laboratory, pockets bulging, already calling for his fellows. He exvented softly, shook his helm. Buy the humans a Deluvian hologram generator, and they used it as a chair. Give them several flawed parts, chipped from some of the most common elements in the galaxy, and they played happily for joors. 

He doubted he’d ever really understand his humans -- so obscure, and so fascinating for it. 

Humming a modified refrain from one of the many musical ensembles Bumblebee had collected, Perceptor turned back to his project. 

 

\----------

 

“Oh frag,” said Buzzsaw, beak clacking in irritation as he peered into the human’s tank.

It wasn’t there. Not under the scraps of metalmesh, not hiding in the water cube, nowhere. “Told ya,” squeaked Ratbat, fluttering by behind the large tank.

“Yeah? Well you could’a told me a joor ago, back when it was escaping!” Fraggity frag frag. He’d been gone for such a little while -- how could this have happened?

“I was recharging,” said Ratbat haughtily. “‘Sides which, it wasn’t my job.”

“Not your job -- awwk!” Buzzsaw flapped his wings in dismay. He hopped back and forth in front of the tank, peering around the corners as if the human had possibly hidden itself there. It hadn’t. One of the fuel cubes that the Boss had dropped inside, before heading off to report, was missing -- either the human had fueled itself a great deal, or... “Look here, you little glitch, I--”

Buzzsaw snapped his beak shut as Flipsides’s comm drifted over the cohort channel. // _Laserbeak just told me -- this is so great! I didn’t think we’d get one as well -- Prowl hasn’t even left his quarters with the other one, yet, so they must be pretty interesting. You probably have this already, but I looked up the humans’ language pack. Has it been talking much? I just can’t wait to see it!_ //

Buzzsaw’s wings drooped. // _...Uh. No, not much,_ // he hedged awkwardly, accepting the language data. Frag and double frag. A glint caught his optic -- a tiny, wavy bit of metal, doubled over and jammed into the cube’s control chip. He had no idea how the human had reached the thing, let alone known where and how to interrupt the containment fields. The human had planned its escape, frag the creature, and it was gonna haveta be Buzzsaw who broke the news to poor Flipsides. 

Or, yanno, not. // _Hey Flipsides, I gotta go, ok? Bye!_ // 

The flightframe fixed a baleful optic on Ratbat. “We’ve got to go find it,” he said.

“What!” Ratbat scrabbled at the underside of a wall perch, wings flailing, nearly missing his landing. “What’s this ‘we’ thing!” 

“You wanna explain to everyone how we let the human escape? You know the mechkin are gonna want to see it. And the Boss ain’t gonna be happy when he comes to interrogate it, and--”

“Again with the ‘we’!” Ratbat made a rude noise. Buzzsaw was right, though -- Rumble was gonna be madder than a razorsnake. Frenzy had gotten to see the human all during the flight from Kalis and had been just fascinated, tapping on the cube walls to watch its reactions, until the boss had scooped him up. “And anyway, how are we going to find it?”

Buzzsaw hop-stepped around perimeter of the low table, peering over the edge. Nope, no human. It could have at least left a trail of fuel cube bits or something, but no, inconsiderate creature. He could smell the thing’s pheromones, but it wasn’t like a flightframe had the hardware for olfactory tracking. No visuals, no trail -- Buzzsaw slumped. Then he called Ravage. 

 

\-----------

 

Chip frowned down at the holographic projection in front of him, tracing the glyphs with a fingertip as they morphed and transformed in three dimensions. While Cybertron didn’t have a morass of conflicting languages the way Earth did, that didn’t make it any easier to learn. The Cybertronian language had a logical base, to be sure, but those deceptively simple expressions had a seemingly infinite number of modifiers. And those modifiers had modifiers, and those modifiers could be modified yet *again*, or even more confusingly, modify another glyphset in another part of the statement. And many of those upper layers of modifiers were entirely context-specific, with meanings that could themselves change with the slightest alteration elsewhere in the expression. Or by the very act of being expressed, Chip was starting to suspect, because if quantum mechanics weren’t involved in this somehow, he’d eat his hat. 

Or Shroedinger’s cat. One of the two.

It was fascinating. And frustrating, and Chip was beginning to understand the sheer immensity of the task he had taken on. A single human lifetime wouldn’t be nearly long enough to map the language, not even with the willing help of several mecha…

“Pettin’s!” Four scarlet optics peered hopefully up at him, small, almost finger-sized golden talons gripping the edge of the table. The Seekerlet--who went by the designation Sunstorm, if memory served--sent more charge to his tiny antigrav nodes, floating himself higher in order to clamber onto the tabletop.

Jarred out of his train of thought, Chip gave the sparkling an absent-minded smile. “Not now, kiddo. I’ve got work to do.” He glanced around. “Where are your ::sibling-creations::?” he asked, trying to imitate the staticky crackle of a word never designed for organic mouthparts. The infant mech--who was already pushing six feet and outweighed Chip by at least several hundred pounds--tilted his helm, all four optics blinking in sequence. Apparently Chip’s accent still wasn’t good enough. 

He tried again, this time in English. “Where are your brothers?” Adult mecha could easily extrapolate meanings from Chip’s attempts at Cybertronian, but hatchlings, he had discovered, were very literal. Not to mention very single-minded.

“They flew away.” Sunstorm wriggled, already bored with the line of inquiry. “Pettin’s!” he demanded again, mixing clipped English with basic Cybertronian. “::Chip:: pettin’s!” 

For a moment, Chip considered asking Thundercracker to come collect his wayward hatchling. The resident clutch of hatchlings wasn’t even strictly his, as Chip understood it, but apparently had been built by an absentee cohortmate, some sort of brilliant artisan who had decided to go wander the universe for a few hundred years. How Thundercracker and his trine had gotten stuck with fostering the resultant baby mecha was a story Chip hadn’t quite yet gotten out of the big Seeker. Still, the hatchlings didn’t seem to mind their creator’s absence, and Thundercracker was an affectionate enough stepdad. Foster parent. Mentor. Something.

But then another plaintive look from those wide optics, combined with a series of pleading chirps from the hatchling Seekerlet, proved to be his undoing. Chip caved. Babies were babies, no matter what the species, and humans were pretty much hardwired to love them. Right? Okay, it was an excuse, but Chip was sticking to it.

“Fine, you can have pettings,” Chip told the expectant hatchling. “But only for a little while, okay?”

“Okay!” The Seekerlet scrambled forward, folding winglets back out of the way. He plopped down on the tabletop with stubby pedes outstretched, and gathered Chip into his lap. Thankfully Thundercracker had taught the hatchlings to be careful of both their talons and their strength, though Chip had suffered through a few bumps and scratches until the sparklings had figured it out. As Chip wiggled into a more comfortable position, Sunstorm began happily combing talons through his hair. “Softwarm pretty ::Chip::!”

Some days, you were an interstellar explorer, a genius mathematician who had boldly gone where no--well, few--humans had gone before. Other days, you were demoted to ‘kitty’. 

Somewhere out there, Chip was certain, God was laughing at him.


	2. Chapter 2

His ping acknowledged, Soundwave stepped past the guards and into the Prime's private quarters.

"In here, Soundwave," the Prime called.

Busy marshaling his data, Soundwave bypassed the art and the murals, ignored the exquisitely-wrought metalwork, entered into Optimus's chambers... and came to a hard halt.

The Lord High Protector was in residence.

"What did you find?" asked Optimus, propping himself up on one elbow, peering over the bulk of Megatron's reclining form. Gleaming crimson optics slitted open, Megatron regarding his brother's spymaster intently.

Soundwave drew a cooling vent. "Subject: species of third planet of system 27985.29594. Subcategory, human auctions. Preliminary observation: mecha at auction, wished to conceal their activit--" Soundwave started.

"Closer," rumbled the Lord High Protector.

The cobalt carrier hesitated a bare instant. Then he stepped forward, approaching the expansive berth. "More reliable data, will require interrogation of the-- eerk!"

The Lord High Protector lashed out faster than the optic could follow, seized Soundwave around the waist, dragged him down and rolled him over. Between one instant and the next, faster than he could react, he found himself deposited neatly between the Prime and Protector, flat on his back on the wide berth.

Optimus exchanged sly glances with Megatron. "Much better," the Prime purred, fingertips tracing the armor that concealed the carrier's socket. Those delicate plates trembled as the Lord High Protector stroked careful talons into near-surface sensory beds. "Now. Tell us what you've found...."

Dentae bared in a sharp-edged smile, Megatron traced his talons down Soundwave's midline, following the blocky angles of armored dock compartment, thorax and pelvic span.

"S-soundwave -- has e-examined--" he'd prepared a report but what-- the file -- he needed to.... The heat of the Protector was like a furnace on one side, the Prime a gleaming perfection to the other. Long talons curled under the a main processing center, jolting a sensation of tingling heat throughout his frame. The spymaster sucked in a harsh ventilation as the Prime stroked blunt fingers over the subtle little mechanisms that concealed the carrier's protometal socket.

"It appears that some... persuasion is in order," Megatron spoke against Soundwave's audial, the heavy rumble of his words a vibration that Soundwave could feel in his struts. Soundwave was a large frame for his class, but compared with the dyad, he felt as diminutive as a Towerling.

"Oh? Is that the case, Soundwave? Shall we persuade you?" The Prime inquired, tenderly, playfully inquisitive.

Soundwave had no ready answer for that, not with the Lord High Protector shifting him to fit Soundwave's backplates against his chest, pressing the sensitive panels there close against the warlord’s massively armored frame. Hardware issued transscans that snapped and tingled in electrical sparks over his plating. Coupling from the front could be awkward, given the outsized bulk of Soundwave's docks, but from behind....

The spymaster, however, was not a mech who put his own enjoyment over his orders! He scrambled to assemble the report his Prime had requested. Unhelpfully, his processors returned nothing but a very complete set of the Lord High Protector's interface schematics. Soundwave tried to twist, to sit up -- if he could just seize a bare instant to process... "S-Soundaah!"

Megatron's talons closed around one pauldron. Weight somehow shifted, and Soundwave found himself pinned down, transfixed by easy strength and incalculable skill. Which gave Optimus all the opportunity he needed to arch his back, duck down... and press his mouthparts to the covering of the spymaster's protometal socket, mid-thorax, below the heavy armor that shielded his docks. "Open for me, Soundwave," the Prime breathed, glyphs curling into circuits and struts, sinking into his very core. It was a command, a pure compulsion … and everything he had ever wanted.

The small mechanism clicked back, slotting open, folding away, baring the silver flex of core protometal and the caliper ring to the Prime's sensor-laden mouthparts and inquisitive blunted digits. Finely jointed, polished to a mirror sheen by the human’s attentions, those fingers probed delicately within, easing the spiraled cover open, touching tender surface nodes with unerring expertise, teasing them to life. Soundwave's own digits flexed desperately, fists clenching and unclenching with desperate want against the smoothness of his own thighplates. The careful touches -- just *there* -- left his vision flecked with dancing light, pure firebolts of white-hot sensation. That channel reached down to the very spark of him; now that it was open, he could feel his spark throbbing within, testing out the limits of that channel, finding it open and empty, reaching for the Presence of his Prime.

Larger, sharper talons twined with his. Soundwave’s ventilations stuttered, trembling, as the Lord High Protector drew his hand away from his own cobalt plating... and brought it to Optimus's helm. The carrier tried to draw back -- this was the Prime! It was sacrilege, it was--presumptuous, he couldn't just, just … but it seemed that Megatron thought otherwise, for those pale adamantine talons pressed Soundwave’s cobalt palm against the upswept thrust of audial horns, smoothed his broad, blunt hands down the back of the Prime's elegantly crested helm.

Against his protometal port, Optimus purred, a deep throbbing rumble of his engine that reverberated against Soundwave’s very struts. He tasted the heated metal with his glossa -- and Soundwave was lost, all thought of propriety set aside. The world was reduced to a singular point, all other considerations vanishing under the onslaught of this sweetness, this bliss. Soundwave writhed, clutching at carmine and sapphire plating, urging, begging for more.

Layers of armor slid apart, smooth and quiet. The Lord High Protector pushed close against the blocky bulk of Soundwave's back, the carrier's panels instinctively arching, spreading for it. Submitting to the Lord Protector’s demands, opening Soundwave for whatever use Megatron might demand.

And Megatron took him.

No mere superficial interface, this; no coy explorations, no tentative pushes of data against firewalls. This was more than union -- it was communion and possession both, Megatron’s desires infiltrating/echoing his own, dissimilar frames and functions transforming, becoming one.

Components segmented, pale plates slipping into transformation seams, pressing him open. The invasion was sudden, inescapable as an assault, thin blades of armor petaling against his own, shifting them aside. More internal components shifted forward, interlinking with immaculate precision, the rush of data sweeping back and forth as systems became shared. The first threads of protometal crossed in a rush of liquid heat; sensor beds pressed, a hundred thousand bolts of purest sensation. Soundwave was invaded, sundered and changed--and at the same time protected, impenetrable armor sliding to nest against his own, components stroking all the way through the core of him with pure physical bliss. Code flooded in, combining and reconfiguring, both great sets of processors heating as they handled the load.

It was like incorporating a billion new parts all in a few moments, protometal singing with pleasure as like met like, as senses expanded... but without the accompanying drain on the spark. For all these wonderful, beautiful, supremely-crafted new parts were already powered, a new spark spinning so close it seemed their coronas could almost touch. A companion, joined across this elemental electrical union, experiencing his frame even as he expanded within the other’s. And all at once, Soundwave was part of something immeasurably powerful, could feel for himself the security of impenetrable armor, knew down to his spark that he stood in perfect and penultimate dominion of his physical space.

So much effortless firepower, the easy assurance that came with this kind of strength -- Soundwave reveled in it, even as he could feel the Lord High Protector rejoice in the coding of harbor and host -- the newfound ability to surround a cohort entirely and keep them within, safe from any harm. Together, entangled and entwined like one great mechanism, they were… an echoing of Soundwave’s own coding, folded into something incredibly greater. Their functions conjoined, they experienced as one the joy and responsibility that came with mastering ten other sparks, the guardianship and physical power that came with mastering a civilization, everything folded together, everything made one. Soundwave gladly joined his systems to that strength, nothing hidden or held back, slaving himself to his Lord Protector’s will.

Megatron no longer even needed to speak, or to open a channel: they were so intimately joined, their frames intertwined, that Soundwave knew the Lord Protector’s every intention, every thought communicated by smallest flare of tensed protometal and shifting struts. Megatron pushed forward, talons slipping possessively into transformation seams, scraping thin curls of metal from armored surfaces--and Soundwave responded, opened to Megatron’s advance, resisted where the warframe expected to be challenged.

Megatron rumbled, deep and pleased, and pushed in. His components were massive, often armored themselves, geared for the demands of a system designed for explosive power and orn-long battles both. The heavy core of his powerplant shifted forward, penetrating between smaller components, guided by all the many linked parts and a galaxy of ever-shifting protometal lines and charge wiring. The influx of voltage was a thundering roar all its own, filling capacitors to their limit, setting every tensor-fibre to aching. Megatron’s talons closed around Soundwave’s hip, just drawing him closer, pulling him back into this merging.

Soundwave could only match that great strength with the devouring power of processors devoted to the transmission of information. Across those forming electrical conduits, he flooded them both with a tidal surge of sensation, the electric-snap of uncounted memories, remembered histories.

Flickers of intensely pornographic moments deluged their systems -- Solus upon Themis, gold on black; Amalgamous, Aegis, dozens of others. Hot blue popping sparks of electricity leapt between their close-pressed plates, wires crackling with the electrical essence of hot white bliss. Megatron shuddered under that onslaught, growling his pleasure and approval both, sharp denta a fiery scrape against Soundwave’s audials.

Optimus lifted himself up, glowing as he watched them couple, watched them both shift and twine and rock together, frames fitting together like the laminae of a fractal. “Do you think, my brother, that Soundwave has been sufficiently … persuaded?” he inquired, stroking possessive, teasing fingertips over Soundwave’s open, vulnerable port; still exposed, still bare of Megatron’s armoring, infiltrating components. A silvered cable snaked its way forward, the soft protometal tip nudging against the opening. “Or shall I provide further incentive?”

Soundwave tried to summon his scattered thoughts enough for a coherent response. His vocalizer glitched, overloaded and staticky from too much charge. “S-sou--pl--please…” His talons had slipped from his Prime’s helm to clutch and stroke desperately at Megatron’s paler plating, interleaved with his own in checkwork chaos. Somehow, he managed to disentangle one hand, reaching out imploringly. Perhaps it was greedy, this need to be claimed by two masters … but how could any mech choose between Prime and Lord Protector?

It certainly wasn’t a choice Soundwave would ever care to make. The Prime Ascendant rumbled a purring laugh, and joined Soundwave’s trembling embrace. “So eager,” Optimus murmured, pressing mouthparts against the top of Soundwave’s helm. It felt like a benediction. “Easy, relax....” Blunt fingers laced between Soundwave’s stubby talons.

Just below the forward prominence of the carrier’s docks, the tip of the Prime’s cable circled, teased against the calipers that had long-since spiraled to their maximum flex. And then pressed in. It felt like a shaft of sunlight nudging its way inextricably into the heart of him, the silver of his protometal parting for it. He couldn’t keep still, couldn’t relax, not for this -- but it never hurt, this careful, delicate claiming. His spark throbbed, drawn out of balance with yearning as it spun. Megatron kept him still, kept him from pushing into it. Tiny mechanisms clicked, locking into place, opening the deepest part of him, and then--

\--and then, here in the hollow of his pleasured, pleasuring frame, he was no longer alone.

Ancient songs and histories sang of this experience. For some mecha, Primus was a universe, a vast and watching Presence, an ever-expanding congregation that had no number and no end. For other mecha, being penetrated by a Prime was nothing but love, a unifying blessing that annealed every fracture, that swept through the broken places and worked them true. This … this was all of those things, but for Soundwave --

_faith-protection-treasure_

\--for Soundwave, Primus was a symbiont.

Tiny, infinitely precious, the Presence joined with his spark as surely as a symbiont joined to his frame, making him whole. Companion and guide, wisdom beyond all knowing, it was a furnace, shading fiery echoes of memory through every part of his spark, multitudinous, indivisible. That energy seethed with limitless life -- all of existence, and all the endless singing space between -- distilled to a single point, burning hotter than any star. And now... now it had chosen to be a part of him, too.

Soundwave shuddered, feeling those energies beating through his spark, twining through every system, every tiny tendril of protometal, overwhelmed by the magnitude of this trust. Filled to overflowing, carrier protocols cascading in happy concordance, Soundwave shared with joy the augmented strength of his frame, his docks spreading beneath his armor in wanton invitation.

Purring in pleasure, Optimus joined them. The Prime pressed forward, pulling them tighter, his own armor opening to join the complex interweave of coupling. Optimus was gentle, always, so deeply careful. It was nothing like being taken by Megatron, except... except for the the dominion. That was the same.

As protometal crossed and components came together, Soundwave found another similarity: the echoing _-joy-_ and _-possession/pleasure-._ His frame so interleaved with those of Prime and Protector it was impossible to know where he ended and they began, his core filled, Soundwave knew nothing beyond this sacred unity, a triad of minds, frames, and sparks. His own overload took him by surprise, rocked through his frame, a heat that filled his vision with white. And still the charge grew, spiraling ever upwards.

 _//I would have you closer, brother,//_ Optimus murmured, his helm turning, blue optics meeting scarlet over the curve of Soundwave’s bent helm, and the carrier could taste the _-affection/understanding/love-_ that washed through all of them with those words. More cables unfurled, reaching outward, stroking hidden sockets along Megatron’s heavily armored sides. _//Let me in?//_

Megatron barred the spymaster from nothing, let him feel the welcome as that strip of plating -- a pale island amidst the ever-shifting sea of multicolored components and parts -- parted for the inquiring touch of cable tips. Soundwave felt the penetration as he had his own, each slender cable flexing and tasting, pressing the spiral ring open and delving in. And now he knew this act from Optimus as well, knew the pressing of each sensor-pebbled cable inside, one by one, each its own source of richly pleasurable feedback. The sixth nudged at the last of the little openings -- but this time, silver talons grasped the fragile length just behind the flexing head, kept it from its goal.

Experiencing every flash of sensation, of input, from both Prime and Protector both, Soundwave gasped a staticky cry as Megatron teased at the sensor-studded tip with the edges of his talons, stroking, pressing, until Optimus was writhing in little abortive movements, trembling so hard that only the twined embrace of both other mecha kept him still. And then Megatron bent his helm to that delicate cable tip, to explore it with his all the capillary wires, all the sensors, of his glossa.

“Nnngh -- Mega -- aah!” And now Prime was the one undone, vocalizer glitching as badly as Soundwave’s, blunt fingers clutching at cobalt and platinum plating, dentae gritted. Soundwave stroked over the Prime’s armor, daring to let his talons dip to caress wiring and sensor beds, electrical pleasure crackling between his fingers in popping blue sparks.

Then the first of the cables sank to full depth into Megatron’s chassis, latching into place, and the tables were turned. Interleaved in fractalline concordance with his Prime, Megatron was no less the Lord High Protector, the destroyer of worlds … and he roared as those cables sank home, subsumed willingly in a cascade of white hot pleasure, subjugated before the tidal rush that was their Prime, and the Presence that now resided in them all.

Primus burned, a searing and razored joy, a blade so sharp it could pierce the spark and a mech would never feel the pain. Megatron’s fierce delight in this act resonated through them all, his pleasure in the dangerous beauty that was *his* Optimus, *his* Prime and no other. Intertwined as they were, Soundwave could not help but echo that delight. It seemed the most natural thing in the universe, to twine and stroke and give himself up to the stronger frames on either side, to want to guard and adore and surround his Prime. And Optimus … Optimus was light, was a reflection of that adoration, a wryly twinkling star beneath that incandescent Presence, one that treasured his Protector’s possessiveness, that twined limbs and cables with his spymaster. Their Prime, who gently deflected their instinctive attempts to guard, to hide him away from the world … standing firm as their beacon, their heart, reaching ever outward.

Another tendril sank home, and then another, sinking into place, and Megatron shuddered, opened, his vulnerabilities laid bare. His smile hidden against Soundwave’s pauldron, Optimus shifted those soft tips of his cables, pushing, pulling just a little, rubbing incessantly against achingly sensitive interiors. The slow, tidal shifting rocked Soundwave backwards, folding him into Megatron’s embrace, then forward, cables pushing deep. All three mecha writhed in a fluid dance, a twining wave, foxfire light flickering and weaving over armor, miniature lightnings arcing into the air. Caught in a maelstrom of sensation, Soundwave was blinded by light, his vocalizer long since broken into panting bursts of static, his frame splayed open, armor and docks, cables and protometal all tessellated between Prime and Protector both.

It was so much, too much, too good, this furnace within, this armored lightning without. But each time one set of capacitors discharged in a blinding crackle, the latent charge filled them again, bright popping sparks leaping from one shuddering frame to the others. Golden radiance filled Soundwave’s spark, twining forth to encompass protoform, renewing, knowing. All three together, a triad made one mechanism, they dwelt in this never ending cycle of shared bliss, of sacred unity.

But for all his upgraded components, Soundwave had not been built to long withstand so much charge of such great intensity. All too soon -- breems or joors, Soundwave could not say -- his partners in this trinity began drawing back, easing him down from these spiraling heights of bliss. The descent was blindingly difficult; Soundwave’s talons flexed and curled with the effort it took not to reach out, to drag the Prime closer, to keep that perfection within him.

Both Prime and Protector soothed him as they disengaged, razor sharp platinum and blunt blue stroking over him in careful touches, lingering at sensor nodes and the opened gaps of transformation seams. Gently, carefully retreating, they drew back thread by thread everywhere they were joined, until they were three, not one, until their frames and their sparks were disparate once again, re-establishing the boundaries of self.

Soundwave gasped soundlessly, vocalizer still too glitched for words. Every gentling touch raised lightning-arcs and pops of bright, hot charge. Purring a low rumble, the Prime gathered Soundwave close, the Protector an insurmountable bulwark at his back. And there, clasped close by the Prime’s flexing cables, they rested together.

Plating clicked as it cooled, as systems slowly reset. Optimus stroked his palm along the places where plating pressed close against plating, where platinum folded against cobalt, where crimson met blue. “I have been considering,” he mused quietly, nuzzling against them both, “new legislation regarding the humans.”

Soundwave blinked up -- and reset his optics again as Optimus sent him the file. The proposed edict was short, a mere few thousand lines. But the implications...

“Consult Prowl. I would like to avoid unintended consequences.” The Prime’s faceplates spread a little in amusement. “As much as possible.” Soundwave wasn’t sure that it was possible at all. What of other alien races, both less and more advanced? Would the regulations extend only to humans kept here, on Cybertron? What of the colonies and starliners?

“It would be simpler to ban them entirely,” Megatron growled. “Let the deviants visit the creatures as they please. The humans have no end of leaders willing to offer that and more, in exchange for trade.” Little wonder, really. Most such organic planets had nothing worth the bother of trading and from Soundwave’s earlier-reported analysis, Earth was little different. Even the native wax, though very fine, was hardly worth the fuel required to transport it.

“That option may prove to be the most viable,” Optimus allowed. “And yet I believe both our races may benefit from increased contact.”

“Black market considerations, a-also significant,” Soundwave managed, attention torn between this very unusual development, and the distracting pleasure that rippled through his frame with each slow caress.

Megatron growled, a low vibration. "Do you mean to imply that the trade in these... these fleshlings would continue, in disregard of edict or embargo?

“Humans, currently in… exceedingly high demand. That value, increases if supply is curtailed,” Soundwave said evenly -- then grit his mouthparts against a gasping whine as the tips of two long talons found a sensitive node, and teased the wiring there. “Punitive m-measures, unlikely to deter trafficking. I-interest in humans, exceeds -- ah! E-exceeds interest in Nebulans.”

 _Nebulos_. A rediscovered colony of the first golden age, the little iron-rich planet had given rise to transformers who were small enough to merge easily with full-sized mecha. Their alt modes were almost exclusively weapon-based. And sparked weapons… well. The popularity of those, Megatron understood quite well.

“Your data,” Megatron said, and paused as he flipped through the file Soundwave proffered. As always, it was exquisitely detailed. Soundwave had tracked market fluctuations, mined banking data to determine exactly how far a mech would indebt himself in order to obtain a human. He had even run mechanimetric analyses on the mecha present at the auction, flagging tells like minute changes in expression and processor temperatures.

And everything pointed to one conclusion. It beggared belief, and yet… mecha -- warframes and civilians, Towers elites and workingbots alike -- they all were enthralled, *fascinated*, with these odorous little organics.

“Very well,” Megatron allowed, “We will attempt your legislative solution. And as for the requests for military aid --” his optics were crimson as the slagpit. “The Towers, I think, have had free reign for too long.” The Lord High Protector’s judgements, Soundwave knew, tended to give petitioners what they needed, regardless of whether or not it was what they had actually asked for. “I will send a division to the humans’ planet. Ultra Magnus is ideally suited to command such an expedition. And … Jazz, as well,” he added, stroking thoughtful talons over the still-sensitive seams in Soundwave’s armor.

“Jazz: not a w-- not a warframe,” Soundwave pointed out, shuddering.

“Indeed. I have, however, noticed your little data-miner’s talent at subterfuge. And my Prime has taken pains to prove that civilian mecha may occasionally make themselves useful,” Megatron said, his field rippling with dark humor underneath his satiation. “The organic--”

“--Raoul,” rumbled Optimus, mildly chiding. Megatron slanted him an annoyed glance.

“--has made a great many accusations. I wish to know if there is any truth to them. If the Towers are indeed violating the Prime’s law, then we require someone to pry open their little secrets. The Towers petition for the assistance of warframes; Ultra Magnus shall be the show of force that they expect. In his shadow, who will notice one more clerk?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue note: words marked with an asterisk (*) are Cybertronian. Otherwise, all spoken dialogue is in English--of a sort. :)

“Oh, for the love of -- you just had one!”

Six pairs of optics -- belonging to three little mecha -- blinked at him. The blotchy yellow mechling, Sunstorm, issued a pleading series of clicks, chirps, and descending whistles. “*Chip-chipchip!*” The three Seekerlets worked on finding the right English pronunciation, jostling at each other. Most of their attempts were too fast to make out, others so slow and over-modulated that the tones became a low hum. 

They had little patience, Chip surmised, with spaces between words, and paid more attention to tones and keys than to the actual sounds that the letters were supposed to make. The hatchlings' statements were further complicated by their tendency to say the same word several different ways, or to repeat closely related words, as if to modify or emphasize the meaning. They had no trouble at all with vocabulary, however, and were prone to concatenating words in a manner that made even Chip scratch his head. Unfortunately, the end result of all of this was pretty much an unintelligible jumble. It was starting to look like he should’ve studied music instead of higher maths--it probably would have been a lot more useful, at least when it came to deciphering alien baby-talk.

“A’gaintWo’gain *Chip-squeeChip!* FlygEt faaabr’ca-rininateFix! GivetransITionwAlkTOoooSu!” announced the green one proudly, faceplates furrowed in fierce concentration. He was promptly bitten by the blue mechling. “Eeee!”

Chip sighed as the three hatchlings dissolved into a hissing, fighting tangle, colors racing in swirls over their bodies. He wheeled his chair back a careful revolution. The first time this had happened, he’d been shocked. Each of the hatchlings was every bit as large as a full-grown person. They moved suddenly and sharply, with none of the baby-ish softness he’d expect from any mammalian species. Their claws looked like the fossil velociraptor talon he’d once held: wickedly hooked and as thick as three fingers, grooved with a deep lateral line. 

But the fossil had been blunted by time, by the slow grind of sand across pleated sheets of mineralized beta-keratin. The hatchlings’ metal talons, however, suffered no such indignities -- not even frequent hard scrabbling on the frames of the other young mechanisms seemed to do the weapons any harm. Nor, for that matter, did the hatchlings themselves seem to suffer much damage, apart from a few scrapes and dents. Even those small scars vanished within a couple of days.

Chip harbored no such illusions about the robustness of his own skin. He sighed and wheeled back a little more, maneuvering carefully around the parts he’d been tinkering with. “Okay, now -- you guys --” Jesus, it was like watching some kind of cross between National Geographic, Robot Wars on steroids, and a gladiator pitfight. And then the yellow hatchling, squealing like a thousand rusted hinges, fell flat on his back beneath the weight of the blue mechling -- right on top of the hoverchair circuitry Chip’d been trying to assemble for the last week. Pieces went skittering everywhere, and the last threads of his patience vanished.

“That’s it! You stop that right now!” 

All three hatchlings froze, the blue one’s mandibles still locked around the yellow one’s wing nub, the green hatchling flattened to the table. Someone peeped. Then the others started. The chorus of beeping sounded, in a haphazard fashion, like a truck backing up. A very, very remorseful truck. 

Chip scrubbed at his face with one hand. This was worse than the time he’d caught Sunstorm measuring his own vents… by seeing which pieces from among Chip’s hardware he could cram inside the slits. Chip was not equipped to be a babysitter, darn it. Especially when said babies were each big enough to sit on him instead! Something clattered -- still peeping, the blue hatchling climbed off the yellow one, managing to step on even more of the hoverchair pieces in the process. Chip winced as something cracked under the oblivious hatchling's stubby, clawed foot. “Ok, fine,” Chip said, caving in. “I’ll launch another one. But this is the last one! And you keep it on the floor this time, alright?”

The peeping stopped, replaced by clicks and excited squeals alternating with eager repetitions “*ChipchipChip*!” The hatchlings wriggled in delight. Six pairs of scarlet optics watched avidly as he rolled his chair over to the nearby launching terminal. Originally designed for much larger mecha, the terminal had been retrofitted, with human-sized buttons and a biometric scanner that ensured only Chip could activate it. As Thundercracker had put it: ‘Otherwise the little pitspawns will be using it constantly, and none of us will get anything done. Besides, you need all the leverage you can get.’

And leverage it definitely was. Keying in the launch commands, Chip watched a drone roll out of the main compartment and transform. Vaguely insect-like in shape, the thing had an abundance of limbs and sensory spines, as well as a double set of wings. Sleek and aerodynamic, the drone was designed to be difficult to catch, and the Seekerlets’ optics followed the toy, fascinated, jostling each other in their eagerness. “Eeee!”

“Ready?” Chip asked them, more to prolong the anticipation than anything. The hatchlings were always ready to chase drones. He hit the launch command, and the drone took off with a flare of miniature thrusters, jetting into the air. Then he ducked as the three hatchlings took off after it, antigravs flaring to life, the little mecha clicking and buzzing with excitement. 

Launch was a wobbly affair, too many wing nubs and limbs all jostling and shoving for airspace, complicated by Sunstorm’s upside-down liftoff. The three hatchlings sorted themselves, Sunstorm clawing himself right side up via the expediency of a few well-placed kicks against the blue hatchling, who squealed in protest, and they were off. Tiny turbines folded out from round bodies, little flaps flared on wings no larger than shoeboxes. The end result was ungainly and awkward-looking. To Chip’s admittedly Earth-based sensibilities, it didn’t look like the little bots could ever fly. 

But fly they did -- and they did it well, too. Chip leaned back in his chair, shading his eyes against the overhead lights, as the three little hatchlings took command of their airspace, swooping and diving with happy abandon. The room was sized generously even for adult bots, about the size of a small aircraft hangar. Mech-sized work tools and enormous sheets of metal were stacked against one wall -- Chip winced as the blue hatchling, Needlenose, missed his grab for the buzzing drone, overshot, and spiraled behind a thick drape of cabling. The hazard, though, was one the mechlings knew well, and Needlenose darted out unharmed from behind the hanging wires. His close call already forgotten, he wheeled after the drone.

The drone might be primitive by Cybertronian standards, little better than a child’s toy, but its AI was still far more advanced than anything humans had ever come up with. It had been designed, programmed, and optimized for high speed pursuit and evasions. It reacted and--to an extent--adapted to the hatchlings’ attempts to catch it. And unlike a human-made drone, it was not limited to ballistic flight: antigravs allowed it to dart upwards or drop straight downwards with pinpoint accuracy and dizzying speed. The drone, in a very literal sense, could turn on a dime. 

The Seekerlets, however, knew this game well. And Chip could already see the beginnings of cooperative hunting tactics in their chase. The hatchlings were far from expert, still bumbling into each other more often than not in their eagerness. But they were also starting to develop their own favorite tactics, their own styles of flying and fighting. They were also starting to pay more attention to elements beyond their target, to watch each other and to take advantage of their different styles. 

Sunstorm was the most aggressive of the three, doggedly pursuing the drone’s tailfins, little optics narrowed and engines whining under the strain. Needlenose was both more creative and more distractible in his flights, flickering above and below and around the drone as it tore through the air, trying to intercept the buzzing mechanism from unexpected directions, occasionally even trying to herd it into his brothers’ claws. 

The third, green-blotched mechling appeared to be the thinker of the bunch, the patient ambusher. Just as fast as the others, the little mech hung back more often than not, only occasionally vying with Sunstorm for prime position on the drone’s tail. Instead he waited, twisting and corkscrewing through the air in pursuit of both the drone and his more aggressive brothers. And when the drone finally miscalculated, finally jinked in the wrong direction … Acid Storm was suddenly there, talons out, slamming into his prey at lethal speed. The drone faltered under the onslaught, spinning, the AI trying to compensate for the sudden changes in weight and trajectory, even as the Seekerlet sank little fangs into the nearest wing, ripping at the thing’s plating. 

Sunstorm and Needlenose weren’t far behind. Chip had seen this game play out a hundred times, and it never ceased to amaze him how fast the tables could turn. One moment, the drone was flying free, zipping around the room and careening around obstructions at speeds almost too fast for him to follow--the next, it was sparking, lurching and faltering as the Seekerlets ripped eagerly at its thin wings, driving it downward with talons and ferocious determination.

At last the drone, its wings in tatters and Acid Storm clinging to it savagely, crashed to the floor. The other two hatchlings followed it down, squeaking all the way. 

They fell on the drone like vultures, like a pack of wolves. Tiny pieces glittered in the air and skittered across the floor as they tore at the flailing mechanism. The thin silica of its wings shattered, the drone still fought to retake the air, hopping and jerking mindlessly even as the hatchlings ruthlessly disassembled it. Needlenose caught one spindly leg, Acid Storm clamped his jaws on another, and then both hatchlings *yanked*, tearing the drone limb from limb in great heaving jerks. 

At least, some small part of Chip’s brain pointed out, they were doing it on the *floor* this time, instead of on his table. And really, was this any worse than dropping live crabs into boiling water?

Of course, Chip had never really had the stomach for that either. 

Hissing, Sunstorm clawed himself atop the still-jerking drone, reared back… and plunged down, talons fisted. Whatever passed for the drone’s spine just snapped, sundered with a terrible, hollow crack that set Chip’s teeth right on edge and sent phantom shivers down his own back. Jeepers. 

Eight sets of talons -- the little green hatchling was grasping with his back feet, too -- dove into the drone’s cracked central body, ripping fistfuls of wiring and tiny gears free to tinkle across the floor like flashing copper sequins. Most of these, the hatchlings ignored. But perhaps a dozen pieces gleamed bluish-silver, and the Seekerlets went after them avidly.

Thundercracker had called the silvery pieces ‘pre-incubated’ -- treated in some fashion to make them easier for a hatchling to integrate into its own frame. To Chip, they looked a bit like Damascus steel, the surface glimmering with an opalescent quality, subtle wavelike dark markings and tiny pits as if the metal had been folded upon itself. The metal was surprisingly light, and even the thin places seemed very strong. Still, he couldn’t see anything in particular about the parts that explained the Seekerlets’ craving for the bits of metal. But then, Chip had only ever been passingly mechanically inclined. Metallurgy just wasn’t his forte. 

Needlenose pried a whole plate made of the coveted metal from inside the drone, and the other two hatchlings predictably turned on him, squabbling over the part. Chip sighed and turned away from the aftermath, back to the mess the hatchlings had made of his own project. Wheeling over, he leaned down and began sorting the pieces again. He set a few on the human-size workbench, assembled just for him, for closer inspection. 

Most of the little bits and circuits were still intact--Cybertronian tech tended to be durable, even for relatively minor or disposable devices--but a few components were bent, and a couple of the silicon insulators were cracked. He frowned, picking up a circuit module with a hatchling-sized dent in its outer plating, turning it over in his hands with a certain amount of resignation. He would have to ask Thundercracker for a new one. There was no way he was going to be able to repair the damage done to that precisely-molded outer shell. Which would slow down his entire project, though he could at least work on the--

“*ChipChip*!” There was a clatter of metal on metal, and then a helm popped up over the edge of the table. “*Chip* ta~AkebEheRe!” Acid Storm floated up, hauling a mangled bit of drone with him. His victory prize, Chip assumed. Sunstorm and Needlenose weren’t far behind, both of them sporting the tiny flecks of silvery new parts amongst their older incorporations, even as Acid Storm landed next to where Chip sat, wingnubs flared proudly outward. He tilted his helm, buzzing in excitement--then plopped his prize squarely in Chip’s lap. “Ffindtake*Chipchip*taKemakeBe,” he cheeped. 

“Whoah! Wait, wha--” Chip cringed backwards, instinctively flinching away from the fluid-smeared, multi-jointed chunk of metal. The three spidery legs, each four feet long and thicker than his wrist, still twitched a little in autonomic reflex. Little gears at the point where they all joined clicked feebly. “'Stormy, what the--?” He pushed the thing back towards the hatchling, who gave a distressed warble. 

The green Seekerlet crowded close, nudging the leg back onto Chip’s lap, smearing his pants liberally with some clearish hydraulic fluid. Acid Storm settled back on his stout aft-end and regarded Chip expectantly, all four optics blinking in sequence. 

Back teeth gritted and feeling faintly sick, Chip cleared his throat. “I appreciate the, ah, the replacement. But I don’t think this will fit on my chair.” Oh, he could probably make it work -- it seemed like there was no such thing as wholly incompatible parts, when dealing with Cybertronian technology -- but the thought of a hover chair with spider legs…. yeah. No. 

Sunstorm and Needlenose buzzed and chirred as they conferred in the background. They seemed to come to some conclusion. The blue hatchling straightened. “*Chipchip*Pettins*Chip!*” he announced, and then bit Sunstorm, apparently as a preventative measure. The two hatchlings tangled together in another brawl. 

Acid Storm issued a strange, gusty noise, which took Chip a moment to place. It sounded… rather suspiciously like his own exasperated sigh. The green-blotched Seekerlet reached out again, wicked claws hooking carefully under the cluster of mechanical legs, which he tugged at.

“Uhm. Okay, do you want --” Chip tried to help move the drone parts off the wheelchair armrests, and ended up with them dangling over his own numb legs instead, the still-leaking central cluster planted squarely in his lap. Well, he really couldn’t get much dirtier, at this point. “Thank you for the gift, ‘Stormy, I’m honored, really I am.” There was a cluster of coveted silvery parts at the join of the three legs -- clearly, he’d been brought the ‘best part’ of the drone. “But these just aren’t something I can use--”

The Seekerlet frowned at him, fine facial plating folded unhappily, the tips of his mandibles working. “*Chip-squeeburble-chip*”, Acid Storm said seriously, patting the drone bits, concentrating. “*Chip*makeFixgrand-walk.”

“biGTAllfaSt! CatchgiVe Fixwalk!” cheeped Needlenose from somewhere underneath Sunstorm’s bulk, evidently in an effort to correct his sibling.

“Okay, kiddo,” Chip said. Whatever it was sounded important, and it didn’t look like he was going to be allowed to get the disembodied drone bits off his lap anytime soon. It’d take a month to finish the chair, at this rate. “Let’s try something different. Can you speak slowly for me? Leave a… a hundredth of a klik between each word. And no making up new ones. Got that?” All the hatchlings wriggled, excited by this new game, Sunstorm and Needlenose still tangled together. “Okay, now. You want me to fix these for you? Put them on a new drone, maybe?”

“*Chiiiip* …. Fix,” Acid Storm agreed with exaggerated slowness, optics wide and intent. He crouched next to Chip’s wheelchair, patting it, then patting himself, helm tilted to one side. “Fixwalk! We … catch. Then *Chip*--” the hatchling fell back into a few crackling, squealing words of Cybertronian, then said, “Big be~TTer. Big fast! Help *Chip* hap-PYhuntFight.”

“WalkFixflyplAY!” added Sunstorm eagerly.

“You want me … to fix the drone, so we can play with it again?” Chips said slowly, trying to parse out that sentence. “Hate to say it, guys, but this drone is beyond saving. You tore it apart pretty thoroughly.” Maybe he should tell Thundercracker his Seekerlets needed more durable drones. He wasn’t sure what the different Cybertronian stages of development were, but it might be time for the little mecha to graduate to a more challenging class of toys …

Acid Storm gave a sharp-edged squeal, impatiently shoving Chip’s chair a little. “Fix NO drone,” he said, frowning at Chip. “Fixwalk *Chip*!” He leaned over and prodded at one unresponsive leg with a talon for emphasis. “We … caTCH. *Chip* fixwalk!” He grabbed the drone legs, and rearranged them over Chip’s lap, pushing at them a little, faceplates folded into a huffy, remarkably humanlike frown.

“You want me … to use this to fix my legs?” Chip said slowly, eyes widening.

The hatchlings conferred amongst themselves in rapid-fire Cybertronian. Chip didn’t have a chance of following the squeals and clicks -- though, interestingly, it sounded like they were adding some of the vowels and fricatives of English to the Cybertronian, mixing the two in a bizarre polyglot. “*Chip* goodfix. Repair. sUBstitute, goodfix,” Acid Storm said seriously, tugging at the drone legs to show him the little silvery bits at the broken juncture, as if to reassure Chip as to the high quality of the parts. 

“Corp’rate! In! ERate!” added Sunstorm. 

Chip swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he realized what they were trying to do. “You … you caught this for me? So that I could get better?” 

To his original owner, he’d been little better than a piece of meat, a bare step above one of those toy-drones; a convenient luxury, worthless once broken. And after--after it had happened, he had almost believed it himself. How could someone feel anything but insignificant, after all, when surrounded by powerful, fantastically advanced--not to mention nearly immortal--Cybertronians?

But Thundercracker had found him. Had saved him. And these deadly, six-foot-plus babies … they cared, far more than his original ‘master’ ever had. They wanted him to be happy; wanted to fix their *Chip*, just as much as Thundercracker did. 

“Oh kiddos … thank you,” he finally managed to say around the lump in his throat. “Thank you, Stormy--but humans don’t fix that way.” He took the legs, shifted them to one side; then, with some effort, undid his pants and shoved them a little down his hips. Nudity no longer bothered him; his stint in the Tower had effectively cured him of any body-shyness he might have had left. Taking the silvery root of the leg unit, he pressed it against the bare skin of his hip, imitating what he’d seen the hatchlings do. “See? My skin can’t open. Your parts won’t incorporate. Not with me.”

All six pairs of optics studied the place where silver metal met peach-colored skin. Sunstorm and Needlenose untangled themselves, tottering over on all fours. Acid Storm nosed forward expectantly, pushing his head in close to watch. After a few moments, the hatchling cheeped, as if in encouragement. Nothing happened. The fine plating on the back of his neck flared a little, like the feathers of a distressed bird. “I’m sorry, kiddo,” Chip said softly, reaching up with hydraulic fluid-stained fingers to stroke and scritch. “It just won’t work.”

The other two hatchlings slumped in abject disappointment, wings and flaps folded so low they would’ve brushed the table if they were a bit longer, audials flattened. Acid Storm seemed less inclined to accept Chip’s estimation of the situation. “*Chipchip!*” His talons scrabbled on the drone parts. “Me, Ido!”

“Gentle, remember?” Chip reminded the hatchling, surrendering the parts to those tugging talons. The hatchling fumbled the legs into a slightly different orientation and tried again, pressing the silvery little gears and circuits to Chip’s hip, then trying another spot on his upper thigh. That didn’t work, either. The little green hatchling issued a sound that Chip had never heard from them before, but that spoke volumes of distress all the same -- a high, warbling keen. 

“Hey there, buddy -- no, look at me,” said Chip softly, reaching up with both hands, smoothing them over stark white faceplates and the petalled black ridges that folded back like a multipart helmet. The hatchling’s four big crimson optics blinked, little shuttering mechanisms closing and opening in sequence, focussing calipers whirring as they readjusted. “Thank you.” Chip said softly, leaning forward just a bit to touch his forehead against the unhappy little mech’s brow. “Thank you for trying. It’s -- it’s all right, it really is.” Somehow -- he didn’t know when -- somehow that had become the truth. Chip was still angry, yes, but it was no longer the kind of helpless fury that burned away the substance of a man. And that… that truly was all right. 

Acid Storm clearly thought otherwise. “NO *Chip!* No fightplAYhUnt! NO!” 

“Open skin?” Needlenose suggested, perking up a bit.

Chip couldn’t help his short bark of laughter, even as he winced inwardly at the idea. Field surgery via hatchling talons was definitely not on his list of things to try! “No, no … definitely not, you guys.” Looking at their downcast expressions, he cast around for an idea. They were so determined to help-- “You know … this thing I’m making? When I get this chair done, then I’ll be able to fly too. But I’ll need to learn--I might not be very good at flying, you know. I might bump into things. You are all getting to be such good flyers -- I watch you getting better every orn. Do you think you can all show me how to fly? And keep me safe when I’m in the air, so that I don’t crash?”

Chip’s suggestion had an immediate effect on the hatchlings. Helms and wingnubs perked up, expressions instantly shifting into eager curiosity. “Softwarm *Chip* fly?” Sunstorm said, obviously delighted with the idea. 

“Iwedo! Fix *Chip* maKEfly!” Acid Storm and Needlenose both jostled closer, little talons stroking over Chip’s wheelchair, poking enthusiastically at the parts lying on the nearby workbench. “Fly fix fly ... Go up FAsthigh!” Sunstorm joined the little group, tugging the drone leg-sections off his lap, much to Chip’s relief, and combing talons possessively through his hair. 

“Our *Chip*,” he announced, puffed up pridefully. “Makebig BEst wings! Keepsafe! Nocrash, *Chipchip,* dutyprOtectnocrash!”

“Nocrash! NocRAsh!” Little wingnubs lifted, flared up and back just like Thundercracker’s, bold and certain and unafraid. They had a job now -- one which, it seemed, fit them to a ‘T’. 

Chip laughed -- he couldn’t help it. He slung an arm around Sunstorm and another around Needlenose, patting what plating he could, while sharp talons petted him. He’d probably be finding scratches for days, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not in the face of so much unabashed joy. “Yeah, guys. Best wings,” he agreed, blinking back moisture. Then a notion struck him. “Do you all want to help? Right now, I mean?”

The happy chirring morphed into squeals of excitement, mandibles clicking eagerly. 

“Do you know where Thundercracker is, right now? Is he in this habitation aerie? Alright, good. First, how about you guys finish up with this drone. And then, you see these pieces here?” Chip freed a hand from the tangle of hatchlings to point at the bent and broken mechanisms littering his workbench. Three little faces followed his every movement, sharply avid. “I need new parts, ones just like these. Can you take them to Thundercracker, and bring back the replacements? Can you do that for me?”

“Eeeee!” The hatchlings were just as excited as they’d been for the drone. Acid Storm scrambled for the table, nearly dumping a teetering Needlenose into Chip’s lap, and latched onto the first cracked piece he found, hugging it to his chest. The yellow and blue hatchlings weren’t far behind, squabbling over the parts. 

“Hold on a sec, guys, you can finish with your drone… first,” Chip finished lamely, as the hatchlings all lifted off, carrying the broken hardware with them. Like overburdened bumblebees, drunk on nectar, they careened into the hatch before managing to chirp it open. Someone dropped one of the parts, and all three squabbled as they dove for it. The hatchlings finally went weaving out, calling to one another in clicks and squees. 

At last alone with his equipment -- and three leaking drone legs -- Chip shook his head in wonder. When he’d arrived here, the hatchlings had been frightening--half-feral, inhumanly strong and utterly alien. Then he’d gotten used to them. Now… now it seemed that Chip had *minions*. Perhaps not the most reliable minions in the world, but … a smile tugged at his lips, trying to escape. “Fly, my pretties, fly,” he murmured, feeling a strange bubble of delight expand within his chest.

He turned back to his workbench. He had a lot work to do if he was going to keep his promise to Stormy and the others. Failure was just no longer an option; not when it meant he would have to face the disappointed optics of his three miniature minions!


	4. Chapter 4

Shockwave leaned back in his seat at the workbench. “Your curriculum vitae demonstrates a suitable quantum of competence,” he allowed, regarding the hopeful research assistant. The pale blue mech nodded hesitantly, as if uncertain what to make of such a high degree of praise. Shockwave paid the gesture little attention; the research assistant would grow accustomed, with time, to functioning in this laboratory. They all did.

“I have one further question for you -- Windshot,” Shockwave said, looking up the applicant’s designation. He hoped the mech did not also become accustomed to being called by name, even if Perceptor did believe that the practice improved morale. “What is your estimation of the humans?”

Windshot reset his vocalizer. “Humans?”

“The dominant, biped species of the third planet of system 27985.29594,” Shockwave clarified, carefully tamping down on his impatience.

“I… uhm.” Windshot’s field radiated nervousness. “Those are the small meat creatures, aren’t they?”

Shockwave regarded him implacably.

Windshot fidgeted. “Yes, I mean, I’ve definitely heard that they’re made of meat. Entirely, I mean, not just partly like the Kreem. Meat, all the way through. I, uh. I don’t know what else there is to say about meat.” The mech shut off his vocalizer with an audible click.

Shockwave tilted his helm consideringly, idly cycling through shortwave visuals. “The species has developed mechanical communications. Radiowave, primarily.”

“Oh.” Windshot smiled, as if perhaps Shockwave might have made a joke, which proved how little the assistant knew about Shockwave. “Someone made it for them?” He took in the blunt negative in the bigger astrophysicist’s field and the set of his plating. His brow ridges drew down. “Or, uh, no? You’re… you mean, meat made a… a radio? But that’s impossible! Do they actually, you know, talk? A language with ideas, concepts?”

“Affirmative. They speak by expelling air across thin membranes.”

Windshot reset his optics, aghast. “They… squirt air across their meat to make it flap? They flap their meat to make a noise? What do they even say to one another? ‘Hello, meat, how’s it going?’”

Shockwave laced his fingers together, waiting in silence while the research assistant gulped air through shaky vents, trying to collect himself. Once certain he had the mech’s full attention, Shockwave spoke. “If your candidacy changes, this laboratory will contact you.” He indicated dismissal, and watched as the research assistant hurriedly collected his datapad and departed.

Then Shockwave sent a comm to the reception area, requesting the next candidate. He firmly marked Windshot off the list.

The word ‘impossible’ had no place in Shockwave’s laboratory.

 

\---

 

Shockwave... did you install this excitation generator... backwards?”

“No.” The other physicist looked up, examining the part Perceptor presented. “Well, yes. A necessary modification, as I reversed the thermal coupling on the main drive relay; the torque enhancement will decrease the turning radius.”

Perceptor bent down to examine the air skiff’s new drive relay. “I see. However, if you--”

Bumblebee’s message, laden with priority glyphs, broke over Perceptor’s comm systems. // _Come quickly -- I believe your three humans have incorporated some manner of viral input! I am returning with... no, it appears they do not wish to be moved._ //

// _What-- Bumblebee, what happened?!_ // Perceptor was already hurrying across the staging pad, towards the infiltrator’s broadcast position.

// _I... do not know. They disassembled a local ungulate, denatured its proteins, and consumed --_ //

// _*What?!* How -- how did they acquire an ungulate?_ //

Bumblebee’s nanosecond pause was telling. // _I... shot it for them._ //

“Primus below!” Perceptor yelped, and broke into a run. Shockwave followed hard on his heels, massive AstroMag cannon already cycling up. The few remaining crewmembers, who hadn’t already moved to Oceanus, rebooted their optics as the foremost physicists in the empire went charging off across the rolling organic grassland.

// _The distillers brought them several bony fishes just last orn, when the humans requested samples, so I assumed--_ //

// _You should not *assume* when it concerns the status of humans,_ // Shockwave sent back, with the natural disgust shared by every sparked scientist for the concept of *assuming*.

Bumblebee paused, apparently oblivious to the magnitude of his scientific heresy. // _They are... they appear to be voiding their tanks._ //

// _*What?!_ // The humans had never done that before. It was possible for a severely-poisoned mech to void his tanks, if his energon had been contaminated and his buccal chemical sensors somehow impaired. But Perceptor could not imagine how an organic might extend the kind of tubing required for such a drastic measure. Perceptor shoved his way through a thicket of the local branching carbon organisms, stumbling up a hillside, bleeping a curse as his pedes slipped in the dense mat of mud and shed photovoltaic wafers. He hadn’t expected even an organic planet to be quite so... so *dirty.* And now, apparently, the local fauna carried malignant virial coding. How could Bumblebee have allowed the humans to--

It was a relief to stumble out onto a cracked and twisting road, formed of dark bituminous pitch, mixed with sand and small stones. Perceptor folded himself down into his alt-mode, the rings of his antigravs keeping him a safe distance above the deep cracks, jagged uplifts, and fallen organic debris that littered the road. On cybertron, this would have been no better than a trail, a path hardly safer than the terrain it crossed. Here, he was almost abjectly grateful for it. Perceptor took off, accelerating hard, just as Shockwave came crashing out of the organic undergrowth behind him in a flurry of photovoltaic wafers, bits of carbon-lignin support twigs stuck into every link of his cannon.

 _//Primus.//_ Bumblebee’s comm was fritzed with worry. _//They have begun generating quantities of -- butyric acid, I think. And--//_

Perceptor accelerated hard, the cracked black roadway whipping beneath him, Bumblebee’s data ringing in his processors as he scrambled to form a hypothesis. The dux had a good suite of chemical processors, the better to serve as a scout, but what -- how could…. Shockwave, his progress slower with a heavy frame’s standard wheel-and-track alt mode, pinged him a note of caution.

Perceptor ignored it.

The humans’ short excursion, in the care of their guardian, had led them to a broken structure, hardly large enough to contain a mech. Part of it had once been an open-air pavillion of sorts, with several thick pillars holding up a solid awning. The worn red glyphs along the edge read ‘Shell’, but whether this was a name, a title, or a short description of the use for which the structure was intended, Perceptor could not say. Beside the awning, the rest of the low building was at least enclosed, though partly collapsed and recently disturbed, to judge by the wet edges of overturned slabs of calcium oxide-aggregated stone.

The breeze smelled strongly of polycyclic organic hydrocarbons, and a small fire crackled merrily in a ring of rubble, under the pavillion. Several lengths of organic carbon support branches leaned nearby, each one skewering a small chunk of nitrogen-dense organic protein matter, somewhat charred. Then the ungulate came into view, and Perceptor suddenly realized what that protein-organic matter actually had to be.

The organic beast had been cut haphazardly apart. Most of its entrails were just gone -- Primus knew where -- and the skin had been peeled back in places, exposing calcium struts. Gore and internal fluids had seeped into the cracks in the cool black roadway. It was nothing less than horrible.

“Over here,” Bumblebee called from behind a low wall of tumbled stone. Steeling himself, Perceptor rose up on his pedes and circled with mounting trepidation, giving the tattered organic a wide berth.

“Oh God.” The Miles-human groaned, and the sound was like liquid nitrogen straight up Perceptor’s backstruts. “There’ve gotta be some TUMS in here someplace.”

“Pepto. Uuugh--” The Trent-human issued a… a wet kind of noise. It was followed by a tooting, static-like tone. “Pink bottle. Look over there.”

What the-- Perceptor rounded the corner. His three humans were collapsed in the rubble. They had bedecked themselves with assorted finery they must have collected from the half-ruined ‘Shell’ structure: Miles sported a very large hat-like object with a domed center and a wide red-trimmed platform all the way around; Sam wore loose plaid pantaloons; Trent bore an upper torso covering labeled ‘Ain’t Afraid Of No Ghosts,’ which Perceptor could only hope designated the manufacturer, because as a statement it seemed essentially unintelligible.

“Oh, hey man,” Trent flapped a hand in Perceptor’s direction.

Miles blinked. “Percy! Uhm. I… think we… maybe… just possibly, right?” He cut off abruptly, gripping his mid torso region.

Oh Primus. They were extinguishing, Perceptor just knew it. They would extinguish here after barely two orns on their own planet. How was he to clear unknown viruses from delicate organic systems? He’d known the humans were fragile, Shockwave had warned him, but he--

Sam let his head loll back. “I think we ate too much?”

 

\----

 

“Well, hello there,” Seaspray stroked his hands over the smooth expanse of the organic’s back. It seemed more alert now; he’d found it almost a joor ago, struggling to keep its helm above water. The creature was about the weight of a human, but more compact, with flippers instead of arms or pedes. It rested on his chest, now, and had started to take an interest in the fronds around it.

Seaspray wasn’t certain how the creature had managed to collect so thick a coating of sticky organic hydrocarbons, but he was now fairly certain that the shield-backed animal had not secreted them. So, one molecule at a time, he’d been sieving them away, along with several strands of tough polyvinylidene fluoride -- some kind of clear, thin string. The energy-rich chemical bonds were a few joules of extra energy for Oceanus, as well.

Not that there was any lack of that. All manner of heavy metals and microscopic bits of assorted plastics were suspended in the water. A fine sandy rain drifted down from Seaspray’s beating fronds as he sieved complex compounds from the water, packaging and discarding the lower-energy compounds as inert granules, mainly calcium carbonate. It was as rich a feast as he’d ever had at the hot gas vents of Arquitex, and this location didn’t seem to be unusual by any means.

“Is this a decoration, then?” Seaspray inquired gently, fingering a small metal object inserted through one of the creature’s flippers. The bent, sharp bit of steel was only now revealed as he finished dissolving away the oily hydrocarbons. Seaspray couldn’t be sure, but… how would an aquatic creature forge this kind of metal? “Do you mind if I remove it?” The organic didn’t protest, and so the distiller clipped the little barbs away, and drew the bit of steel free of the tough organic hide. He tucked the bent metal into a waving drift of collectors to be dissolved.

The organic rested a while longer, then cautiously, it began to stir. It stretched out its helm on a strange, leathery neck. Then it nipped at one of Seaspray’s fronds. The distiller burbled a soft laugh, flicking the thin fibers away before the organic could cut its beak-like buccal unit on them. “I’m afraid you can’t eat those, sweetspark,” he murmured to it, quietly.

The organic stretched its helm to the surface for another breath of air, flipper-paddles stirring, as Seaspray’s fingertips traced along old scars in its thick, bony plating. He wondered what they did eat -- and looked forward to finding out. There was so much to find out, here!

The salty water carried deeper noises quite well -- for a moment, the organic almost seemed to… be mimicking the sound of engines? Seaspray blinked, then lifted his own helm, his collection fronds splaying in a stirring whorl around him. How very strange. The sound wasn’t coming from the organic. A mech he didn’t recognize was sweeping low over the water, parallel to the shoreline, flying low. He seemed a little small for a Seeker, built more for agility in close quarters, with rounded dark orange wings. Seaspray pinged a pleasant greeting.

The reply was decidedly… fritzed. _//I’m FINE. Just -- everything is totally under control, so nobody needs to -- Primus, quit PULLING on those!//_

“Uhm,” said Seaspray, optimizing his optics for the atmosphere. He blinked. Was that… a human? In the speeding mech’s canopy? The airframe rocketed by, too fast to be certain.

Seaspray rubbed his helm. Curiouser and curiouser, this planet. The organic on his chest stirred its limbs. “Oh, are you leaving me, then?” Seaspray inquired, as the organic hooked a fore-paddle up onto Seaspray’s plating and pushed off, bumping away from his chestplates, and placidly slipped into the open sea. Seaspray’s long flukes twisted him in the deliciously silky water, and he ducked his helm under to watch as the flattened brown-green body sailed quietly away into the deep teal shadows.

“Huh.” Seaspray flexed his fronds, flashes of light dancing over the branching structures as the filaments found new materials to harvest. Tiny fishes scattered from their shelter in his shadow, then darted back to nip at the organic compounds Seaspray discarded. They joined the microcosm of tiny glittering beings -- rough or rounded, jelly-bodied or robed in tiny shells -- that had claimed Seaspray’s purifying fronds as their home. “Everyone’s in a hurry, these days!” The distiller told them, laughing.

 

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who reads! Chapter 4 is mainly a collection of snippets from our 'saved for later' document. Some segments are only roughly finished, and may contain errors. Segments of this story are out of order, but all are set in the 'Domesticus' universe.


End file.
